Midnight Express
[Noon.
With all the suddenness of a tunnel, noon sweeps over the train.
Suddenly, somewhere in the carriages, cries and shouts of surprise.
The lights flicker, sputter, gutter, go out completely, dim to malevolent glowworms, or burst in showers of glass. The walls sway, heave, flex, bend, press in close, and breathe. The floor ripples, shivers, twitches, twists, curls on itself. The length of a carriage grows to tremendous proportions without moving at all: two inches seem to be two yards, and there's no way these things could be stretch inside without being stretched outside, but they aren't, and that's impossible (isn't it?). Doors slam open, slam shut, refuse to open, refuse to shut, or pull against the one with a hand on the latch. Water in a glass ripples in time to a rhythm that does not match the rhythm of the train on its tracks. A seat in a compartment swings wildly, tossing its occupant out. Ceilings lower. Heat burns in places that should be cold, cold filters in where it should be warm. Ice forms on windows, or condensation forms on glass. Voices call from too far away or too nearby, or perhaps from nowhere at all. Darkness rises up out of the corners, like fog or miasma or dark and oily water.
And the view from the windows changes: gone are the visions of apocalypse and destruction, of fire and ice, of rain and suffering, of worlds broken in two. But is the view of nothing in this moment any better? The blackness outside the windows is deep as as the sleep beyond dreams, the sleep riddled with nightmares. But, gently, darkness breaking on darkness, there are ripples in the deep.
There are ripples in the dark.
It lasts only moments, no matter how long it seems. And then things are calm again. Doors open, lights turn on or are swiftly replaced, the scenes of chaos return to the windows.
But there's more to this, sadly.
A young woman has died during the chaos and darkness.
She's young, very young, fair-haired, and pretty. She's dressed all in pink, despite the lateness of the season. Or, well, she was quite pretty--perhaps she is, even with death's pallor on her face. How did she die, though?
She has broken her neck. And one needs no doctor or police officer to see this, as twisted as her head is against her body. She has broken her neck, somehow.
Beside her is a bouquet of flowers--roses--already withered far beyond their pink blush. Now they look more like a bundle of brown paper, twisted up to look like roses, and just as dry as any yellowed page. What woman would buy a bouquet of withered flowers? They must have been fresh when she got on the train, certainly--?
And now she's as dead as her flowers.
But how?
Did she trip? Not with her neck at such an angle--though perhaps it's possible. It would have to have been such a fall. There are no steps here for her to fall down, but the way she's lying would make it seem so. Are there bruises at her neck? No, she hasn't been stabbed. Perhaps there are bruises. Shouldn't someone close her eyes, given the way she's staring, almost as though she saw someone she recognized? Or maybe she's just staring in surprised. Was this just an accident? That pandemonium, that chaos that just went on, it would have been enough to unsettle anyone, to make anyone trip.
But something isn't at all right in this. How did she die?
By accident? By another's hand?
Someone should see to her body...]
[ooc: Welcome to one strange ride... The events in this post took place today, Friday, at 12pm, noon. Set to work! There's been a murder! It's high time someone should investigate! The young woman in this scene is an NPC and obviously can't say anything, but investigative questions asked here could be answered, if the detail is not made clear in the above...narrative. Things like body temperature, whether rigor has set in, &c--things that could be observed, but which may not have been written above. Anyone is welcome to find the body, of course. If no one does, another NPC will, and word can travel fast around the train about this ordeal. Good luck, happy hunting~]
With all the suddenness of a tunnel, noon sweeps over the train.
Suddenly, somewhere in the carriages, cries and shouts of surprise.
The lights flicker, sputter, gutter, go out completely, dim to malevolent glowworms, or burst in showers of glass. The walls sway, heave, flex, bend, press in close, and breathe. The floor ripples, shivers, twitches, twists, curls on itself. The length of a carriage grows to tremendous proportions without moving at all: two inches seem to be two yards, and there's no way these things could be stretch inside without being stretched outside, but they aren't, and that's impossible (isn't it?). Doors slam open, slam shut, refuse to open, refuse to shut, or pull against the one with a hand on the latch. Water in a glass ripples in time to a rhythm that does not match the rhythm of the train on its tracks. A seat in a compartment swings wildly, tossing its occupant out. Ceilings lower. Heat burns in places that should be cold, cold filters in where it should be warm. Ice forms on windows, or condensation forms on glass. Voices call from too far away or too nearby, or perhaps from nowhere at all. Darkness rises up out of the corners, like fog or miasma or dark and oily water.
And the view from the windows changes: gone are the visions of apocalypse and destruction, of fire and ice, of rain and suffering, of worlds broken in two. But is the view of nothing in this moment any better? The blackness outside the windows is deep as as the sleep beyond dreams, the sleep riddled with nightmares. But, gently, darkness breaking on darkness, there are ripples in the deep.
There are ripples in the dark.
It lasts only moments, no matter how long it seems. And then things are calm again. Doors open, lights turn on or are swiftly replaced, the scenes of chaos return to the windows.
But there's more to this, sadly.
A young woman has died during the chaos and darkness.
She's young, very young, fair-haired, and pretty. She's dressed all in pink, despite the lateness of the season. Or, well, she was quite pretty--perhaps she is, even with death's pallor on her face. How did she die, though?
She has broken her neck. And one needs no doctor or police officer to see this, as twisted as her head is against her body. She has broken her neck, somehow.
Beside her is a bouquet of flowers--roses--already withered far beyond their pink blush. Now they look more like a bundle of brown paper, twisted up to look like roses, and just as dry as any yellowed page. What woman would buy a bouquet of withered flowers? They must have been fresh when she got on the train, certainly--?
And now she's as dead as her flowers.
But how?
Did she trip? Not with her neck at such an angle--though perhaps it's possible. It would have to have been such a fall. There are no steps here for her to fall down, but the way she's lying would make it seem so. Are there bruises at her neck? No, she hasn't been stabbed. Perhaps there are bruises. Shouldn't someone close her eyes, given the way she's staring, almost as though she saw someone she recognized? Or maybe she's just staring in surprised. Was this just an accident? That pandemonium, that chaos that just went on, it would have been enough to unsettle anyone, to make anyone trip.
But something isn't at all right in this. How did she die?
By accident? By another's hand?
Someone should see to her body...]
[ooc: Welcome to one strange ride... The events in this post took place today, Friday, at 12pm, noon. Set to work! There's been a murder! It's high time someone should investigate! The young woman in this scene is an NPC and obviously can't say anything, but investigative questions asked here could be answered, if the detail is not made clear in the above...narrative. Things like body temperature, whether rigor has set in, &c--things that could be observed, but which may not have been written above. Anyone is welcome to find the body, of course. If no one does, another NPC will, and word can travel fast around the train about this ordeal. Good luck, happy hunting~]